His lips are wine, intoxicating, mesmerizing, enthralling, painful, delicious, everything in a small mistake.
But I return, another mistake that every addict makes.
And yet they taste better, although accompanied by a larger sum of pain.
But I ignore it.
A mistake grows into a fatal error, when we touch.
We'd call it love.
But it was venomous, poisonous, delectable, like the sweet bile that emerges from the throat of a drunk.
The venom bore fruit, within my flesh.
They call it a blessing, I too saw it as such, but I knew not whom he'd be.
One of mine, one of his. Us incarcerate
A child of utter vileness
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Poetry
General FictionVarious poems about all sorts of things, nature, romances, ill-fated and beautiful ones, pain, death, open-hearted caverns and tight ones. The long and short of it... The poems could be about literally anything. Some of the content may be a little...
